


Boundaries

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Series: FFXIVWrite 2020 [8]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Collars, Dirty Talk, Gags, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Rope Bondage, Sex, Smut, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Threesome - M/M/M, Top G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, or attempts at it really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26376967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: G’raha Tia is too old for this.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/X'rhun Tia/Warrior of Light, X'rhun Tia/Original Character(s), X'rhun Tia/Warrior of Light, X’rhun Tia/G’raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Series: FFXIVWrite 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906210
Comments: 15
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FFXIVWrite Day 8: Clamor
> 
> Little note that Fahmi is a trans man and all terms used to refer to him and his genitals are masc or gender neutral 😊

He can’t breathe. Every inhale reminds him to settle further, to keep the tension in his shoulders and his arms pressed together from elbow to wrist because if he doesn’t, if he falters and reaches out for the barest second, he would free himself. 

Above all else, that is what he cannot bear.

“He can be taught,” G’raha remarks conversationally, looking down at him as if a king observing the struggles of lesser men. His hair is still pinned back and orderly, not at all like either of his companions. His focus is devoted to the one he has in hand, fingers skating across skin and whitened scar tissue with clear intent to tease. 

“How do you feel, X’rhun? Our dearest Warrior of Light wants you so badly.”

He bites down on his improvised gag—some scarf Fahmi pulled from his gods-given inventory—and tries not to shudder when those scholar’s hands slip beneath the hem of a pair of flimsy, white smallclothes. The ribbons wrapping around his forearms press warningly into his skin, straining to hold despite him barely putting force into it. 

When he had agreed to let G’raha join them, he had expected the same enthusiastic inexperience he displayed when adventuring. He was not prepared for magic and the insistent ache of teeth on his neck rendering him incoherent. 

He had adjusted the more they did—tumbling together like odd puzzle pieces as they reexamined their places at Fahmi’s side as more than adventuring companions and friends—until they worked up to this. Fragile, lace ribbon was looped around his arms in place of true restraints, the result of one too many honest conversations when deep in his cups. 

(He had admitted to preferring the choice of complete self control over that of allowing himself to be wholly immobilized. G’raha had smiled over the rim of his tankard and said they’d certainly be able to make do.)

Fahmi was nearly his opposite, a complimentary creature, the moon to his sun, and saw weak restraints as an avenue for anxiety. If he focused on not moving, on being perfectly,  _ painfully  _ still… he  _ would _ be still, but it would come at the cost of the wrong headspace. 

He had explained before, how his mind tends to slide into different modes as a coping mechanism—when he looks through them, terrifying and unseeing, that is not him in there. It is whatever lives behind his stomach, somewhere deep in his heart—and what he needs to avoid to keep himself safe. 

The ropes are part of that, somehow. 

They wrap around his chest, circling his biceps and binding his arms together behind his back in a way that makes X’rhun want to look away. It’s sensual, all red-on-white contrast and the smooth arch of his back. He looks remarkably  _ breakable  _ like this, rope running from his forearms to the back of his collar straining as G’raha works him over, and  _ gods  _ does it hurt to stay there on his knees. 

“How do you feel?” G’raha asks, watching the stuttering rise and fall of his chest. “Do you want more, my dear?”

Fahmi opens his mouth before snapping it closed, teeth sinking into his lip when the hand in his smalls moves more insistently against him. “R-Raha, don’ make me─ _ ah…  _ answer that.”

“I’d fain hear it,” he says, voice taking on the same tone he used as Exarch, “and you will indulge me.”

They had discussed this, that of his need for reassurance, and agreed that it could be included in the scene. Knowing that it would happen (expecting it, even) does not prepare any of them for it in truth. 

“‘M… fine. You  _ know  _ already,” Fahmi mumbles, trying to hide his face in the pillows. He wriggles, attempting to squirm his way into some form of decency, and fails spectacularly when G’raha does something X’rhun can’t see.  _ His toes curl and there’s a little cut-off gasp _ before he says,  _ “Good. _ It’s good, Raha.”

G’raha smiles incandescently, cheeks dimpling. “Thank you.”

It’s unfair how charming he looks. 

He turns his attention to X’rhun with a sense of triumph, expression twisting to be more smug than boyish. “And what of you? Nodding should not be beyond you, I think.”

He’s right, he knows, but there is a little part of him that bristles at being addressed in that tone. Neither of them are nunhs in truth, but their respective stints away from their tribes make it hard for either of them to fall back into the role of tia. He can see the challenge in G’raha’s eyes and wants to rise to it. 

The ribbons around his wrists think otherwise. 

They strain, threads beginning to snap, and he has to watch his breathing for a long moment before he can afford a response. He nods, the movement jerky and a step away from sullen, and makes a pointed effort to ignore how uncomfortable his trousers have become. He remembers the day he first donned his uniform and still feels the same pride whenever he puts it on, taking care to ensure each button and clasp is done up properly before setting out on his travels, but now? He just wants out of it. 

The many belts and ruffles are like an ornate prison with how well they serve to keep him from pleasure. Even had he the liberty to make use of his hands, it would take an inordinate amount of care and frustration before he would be able to sate his craving. Between the removal of each layer and the fraying focus he struggles to maintain, he knows it would be a fool’s errand to try and get every single piece of clothing off before he loses his patience. 

So he stays kneeling, nails biting into his palms, and does not allow himself the ill-advised fantasy of freedom. 

G’raha turns from him after waiting to see if he needed to signal, hand never ceasing its veiled movement until Fahmi whines, reedy and just on the edge of overwhelmed, hips making aborted movements to match the thumping of his tail against the sheets. He pauses, withdrawing it, and his fingers are  _ wet.  _

That’s… something he should have expected. 

(But he didn’t and even just the smell─unimpeded by cloth and viciously familiar─is enough to make his mouth water.)

“Should we remove these, or would you prefer to keep them on?” he asks, clean hand pulling at the corner of Fahmi’s underwear. 

He gets a nod in response. 

“You need to tell me which.”

Fahmi puts up resistance as is his wont, but it’s a token effort. “Y’ want me t’ say it?”

It’s G’raha’s turn to nod. He remembers that it’s not the right response halfway through and has to say, “Yes. I do.”

He forgets that Fahmi cannot see him, anymore. Feeling so young, so far from his memories and the Other Self with a body made of crystal, makes him think of their days exploring the Crystal Tower and not the years of pain that followed. If he isn’t looking, he misses the cloudiness of his eyes and the roughness of the scar tissue he barely saw until moments before death. There is a disconnect between what he Knows and what he Remembers, but no one but him is capable of sorting through it. He resolves not to touch it for the evening and just take what he needs. 

“Off,” Fahmi bites out, and then tries to melt bodily into the mattress where he can never be seen again. 

He tugs his smalls down, struggling a little when they catch on the corners of raised scales. There are so many changes that occurred between when he had been G’raha Tia and when he had become the Crystal Exarch. Too many, really. He forgets that he can’t simply knock his head against Fahmi’s on the sides, that his vestigial horns will get in the way, and that there are portions of marbled scaling slowly growing in all along his spine and limbs that make taking off clothing something of a hassle. 

It’s not  _ bad,  _ though. He quite likes it, to be completely, dreadfully honest. 

He can see X’rhun’s pupils dilate when he tosses the flimsy underwear to the side. He looks like a man starved, staring at what he cannot have as if he can will G’raha to have mercy on him. 

(He won’t, though. It’s time he stepped fully into his old self’s shoes.)

“No wonder you asked this of us,” he says lowly, “when even the barest touch gets you dripping.”

He pauses, heat flooding to his cheeks, and squeaks, “Forgive me. This seems to be a bit beyond my bounds.”

Fahmi laughs, breathless and a bit embarrassed, before saying, “Y’ tried. I’d give an A f’r effort. Rhun liked it.”

G’raha sputters, tail fluffing up. His mind (the part of it that is distinctly  _ him  _ and not Exarch) clamors, synapses misfiring at the knowledge that he said that and it wasn’t ill received. X’rhun had liked it. He had… thought it was good; thought that  _ G’raha _ saying it was good. 

“I need a moment,” he says, and buries his face in his hands as if to soothe the painful burning of his cheeks. 

“C’mon, Raha,” Fahmi teases, smile audible, “aren’t y’ supposed t’ follow that up with somethin’?”

“I am too old for this.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G’raha is suddenly and acutely aware of his own hubris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FFXIVWrite Prompt 13: Free Day  
> I went with “Wager” as my choice :3c
> 
> Is it really a Kiri Fic™️ if there isn’t an oddly placed confession in the middle of the sex? No. No, it’s not.
> 
> (I dont know how to pwp)

“Try again. Ask for it properly.”

Fahmi gasps, legs trembling when G’raha’s fingers press against his heat. X’rhun can see the mortification rising before he even utters a single word, so obvious is his blush. “Want you,” he says, hips rocking against his hand. 

It’s honest and to the point, a victory for someone like him—whose grasp on words and their joint uses is more an impediment than of import—but it is not good enough for G’raha.

_ “Properly,”  _ the Seeker says in chastisement, grinding his thumb against Fahmi’s clit. “You can do it, my dear. We’ll wait as long as you need.” 

This time, the blush does not worsen, but the smell of arousal does. There’s a distinct tang to it, less musky than that of a Tia or Nunh, and X’rhun is suddenly and acutely aware of his gag.

He would like to add on a line of praise, that he is nearly there, just one more word and he’ll be golden. He would like to entertain the idea of going down on him again, just like he had all those months ago, before G’raha was even a thought on his mind, but all he gets is the taste of wet cotton fabric instead.

Fahmi shudders, the bell clenched tightly in his right hand giving an aborted tinkling sound as he shifts, and G’raha slows in practiced response. He won’t stop unless he drops it. That’s their nonverbal cue, one of many built into any sort of play where Fahmi may end up incoherent, and he is careful to ensure that he pays close attention to the muted metallic sounds just in case. 

“Want—want you, Raha,” he says, ears flicking in agitation. “Please.” His tail curls around his ankle, fur halfway to risen, and the rope wound around his arms strains audibly. 

G’raha hums, leaning in to kiss him gently, soothingly, with so much care it almost seems out of place. His whispered response is nearly inaudible from where X’rhun kneels, the barest idea of a phrase carrying above the warning creak of leather. 

_ “Of course.” _

Even without spouting praise, he conveys his approval in the way he rewards such honesty.

(Though, that word is not one X’rhun would apply in this situation. Desperation fits with more accuracy.)

Fahmi vibrates, muscles tensing when G’raha’s fingers dip inside, one and then two stretching him out. He bites at his lip hard enough that it bleeds when they crook, pressing at something perfect and  _ blinding.  _ He’s had this before, knows what he should expect, but it still punches the air from his lungs every time. 

“Beautiful,” G’raha says, teasing at a third. “Would that you could see yourself.” 

X’rhun is two seconds away from tearing himself free specifically at the sight of him. Suffice to say, he agrees. 

His jaw aches with jealous tension—it should be  _ him _ doing those things,  _ him  _ who Fahmi cries out for,  _ him  _ who can command  _ G’raha  _ kneel and wait until he’s earned it—and he wishes that his teeth were closing around skin and not fabric. 

“How good you’ve been,” he says, and it takes a moment for X’rhun to realize that he isn’t talking to Fahmi. His ears flick in surprise, rotating sharply to catch his voice all better. 

“Would you like to join him?”

There is a distinct lack of  _ us  _ in that sentence, both of them operating as separate but complementary parts of a whole, and somehow it stings. Part of him, the hungry beast behind his stomach, wants both of them, all of them, everything he can take until he feels  _ needed.  _

(Fahmi does not  _ need  _ him. He is capable of protecting himself and managing all on his own. He  _ wants  _ him, though. 

G’raha had also admitted that he does not mind his presence. He had said they were both after a common goal, all halting and embarrassed like Fahmi hadn’t made them talk it out under threat of celibacy. That being, Fahmi’s happiness.

Somehow, despite it being a choice, the little creature is not satisfied that he has been chosen. It makes him terrible and jealous in ways he swore he would never be.)

G’raha leans down to lay a kiss on Fahmi’s brow, withdrawing his fingers and wiping them on the sheets. “A moment, my dear. I will only be a few steps away.” 

He slides off the bed, bare feet whispering against the floor, and approaches X’rhun. He kneels before him, hands untying the gag and carrying the smell of slick with them. 

X’rhun works his jaw for a moment before testing his voice. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” G’raha replies, smiling lopsidedly. “Care to join him?”

“Why not us?”

“Pardon?” His smile falls, brows drawing together. 

“Why not us,” X’rhun repeats, “or do I mistake your meaning?”

( _ “Why you? Why  _ not  _ you? Or do I mistake your meaning?”) _

G’raha lets out a laugh, sharp and startlingly fond. “I fear you do. I intended it as an invitation to make use of my talents just as he has.”

“I… need clarification, then.”

“What say you to a wager? If I can get you off before you can manage to make Fahmi, I will personally allow you any imposition, no matter how untoward,” he says, trying for the same tone he had before the Tower had stolen his identity out from under him. 

X’rhun raises a brow, assured in his experience. “And if you win?”

“I would ask the same of you.”

He nods, catching himself at the last moment before he attempts to hold out a hand to shake on it. 

G’raha reaches around and unties the flimsy knots keeping him bound, waiting for him to shake out his hands before retreating to the bed once more. He climbs up and shuffles across the sheets on his knees awkwardly. Fahmi turns toward him, ears catching his approach long before his hands brush against his jaw. He says something inaudible, but Fahmi nods in response and he smiles incandescently.

X’rhun has a sudden and acute urge to go back on his word. 

“Are you not joining us?”

He stands, rolling his neck and stretching his shoulders perfunctorily before replying. His tone is light when he remarks, “To roll around like kits experiencing their first rut? Certainly.”

G’raha snorts inelegantly, his boyishness showing through once again. He scoots himself closer to Fahmi, positioning him so that he is propped up against the pillows, legs bent at the knee and spread apart in a way that makes his breath come slightly faster. He divests himself of his pants, unbuckling the belt and shimmying out of them in short order. They’re tossed somewhere to the side─a problem for tomorrow’s G’raha─and followed closely by his smalls. 

He does not take himself in hand despite the temptation to take the edge off of his self-imposed denial. He has  _ plans  _ and those plans require one X’rhun Tia of the Red to lose their wager.

“I c’n smell you, Rhun,” Fahmi says, knees drawing in as if to cover up. 

“And I take it that I should shower after this, yes?”

He bites his lip, struggling for the right words before mumbling, “It’s nice. Knowing ‘m wanted.”

G’raha makes a sound somewhere between speech and a gasp before sighing. “I─you… you asked me once… why you. My answer was truthful, yes, but it was also only  _ half  _ of a truth.” He speaks with an evenness born from practice, an odd maturity that does not fit within the confines of his newfound body. His smile is sad, a self-deprecating thing that turns his eyes dull instead of brilliant. “I would not be here, without you. There is no one else I would have chosen, if not you. Not for anything.”

X’rhun finds that he… does not mind hearing a confession of that sort. It isn’t for him, isn’t spoken for his ears, but to witness it is somehow not as bad as he thought it might have been. He knows how deeply G’raha loves Fahmi, had seen it from the second he’d returned to Mor Dhona and seen them glued at the hip, but he soothes his nerves to hear. 

If something happens to him─the inevitable failure of his rapier or magic, age, an unseen enemy, his penchant for self-sacrifice─he would be at ease, knowing he would not be the only one who can love him so loudly. 

Fahmi fidgets, hands flexing as if he would be able to reach out and hold them, and the bell jingles dully. He reaches for words, most of which are found in the aegis of memories returned, and says, “You don’ have t’ tell me. I knew.”

“Oh.”

X’rhun smiles, reaching over to ruffle G’raha’s hair, adding, “You aren’t exactly subtle.”

He groans, looking away from both of them. “Was that why you were so adamant about this arrangement? That you could embarrass me before my inspiration and ensure I will never feel my cheeks again?” His face is red from forehead to chest.

“Mayhaps.”

“Don’ tease him, Rhun,” Fahmi chastises, using a leg to poke him on the side. 

X’rhun grabs it by the ankle and lifts, leaning down slightly to lay a kiss on the top of his foot and then a multitude of them on the way up toward his hip. His path veers inward until he’s sucking marks along his inner thigh. He pauses, feeling the thrum of aether beneath his skin, and sends a glance G’raha’s way. He asks, “Should I tease you, instead?”

It’s rhetorical, but it makes Fahmi squeak some indecipherable response that tapers into a moan the second he closes teeth around skin. 

He tastes good, always has, and it sates the animal part of his heart to mark up what is  _ his.  _ It’s nearly like being given a work of spun sugar, how Fahmi melts with every nip and purposeful bite, legs falling open further to allow him to move closer, crowd up against him, give him everything he needs.

He’s the barest ilm away from skipping straight from teasing (“Tickles, Rhun. Your hair’s gotten longer.”) when G’raha reaches around and deftly unbuttons, unlaces, and unclasps every last closure and strap on his pants. He hasn’t the time to ask,  _ “What are you doing?” _ or  _ “Is that needed?”  _ before there is a hand pressing insistently against him and he remembers exactly how much he had neglected himself. 

It’s a shock not unlike the sharp, ephemeral pain of casting Verthunder. He startles to match, tail fluffing unconsciously, and it’s only when G’raha laughs that he realizes exactly how strongly he had reacted to the simple touch. 

He might lose their wager. He might not make it any longer than Fahmi (who is  _ known  _ to have hair-trigger self control). 

But this isn’t the first time he’s found himself spectacularly wanting. 

He moves his hands from Fahmi’s thighs to hook beneath them, resuming his assault on his skin. This time he does not keep it all that soft, laying into marks already reddened and waiting until he hears that breathy whine he makes in response to pleasurable pain before releasing the spot and finding another. 

G’raha is not wont to take his time. He pulls down X’rhun’s waistband and takes him in hand, fumbling for the bottle of Ironworks-branded lubricant. 

(He really does not want to know the whys or hows of its make.)

He manages to pour (read: spill) some into his free hand, a portion dripping down his arm and onto the sheets below. Once he manages to slick up his other hand, it’s only a matter of time between when he begins to work him over, adjusting his grip to match the groans and flick of X’rhun’s tail, and when he teases at more. 

“You looked good, last time. I didn’t think you’d manage to take it so well,” he says, watching as he shudders beneath him. “Do you want—“

“Rhun— _ ah,  _ don’ do that,” Fahmi says, interrupting him with a distinctly tense tone. He trembles, muscles flexing and releasing in fits and starts like he can’t figure out what to do with himself. It’s a sign that he’s close, almost  _ impossibly  _ so, and G’raha redoubles his efforts when he realizes why. 

It’s a lost cause, though. Even knowing how he likes it, all the little tricks and tells he’s learned from their time together, he had forgotten one very important detail. 

X’rhun knows Fahmi better than he knows himself. 

His mouth moves against him, all perfect suction and wet heat, and there is very little G’raha can do other than stay his course. Fahmi is a livewire, aether jumping from his skin in ephemeral arcs, and for a second his breath comes out cloudy and cold. X’rhun does something—all G’raha can see of it is the flex of his jaw—and Fahmi nearly wheezes, sounds piling up in his throat as he quakes his way through orgasm, spilling all over the sheets and X’rhun’s face. 

He can hear himself make a vague  _ huh  _ as if from far away, absorbed in watching as he comes down from his high. X’rhun pulls back, face wet from nose to chin, and rasps, “You with us?”

Fahmi nods, too winded to speak. 

He turns to G’raha, smug like he just won the entire Cactpot, and smirks. It’s quite a look, considering the state of his face and hair. “I’ll be saving that imposition.”

G’raha never should have made the offer of a wager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhun has taken Major Strap before and no i will not expand on that  
> It’ll be a fic eventually ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Scream with me on twt please im begging u
> 
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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